Yellow Violets Red
by YellowBella
Summary: Dusty paints a tampon fairy fifty shades of purple. candy, slushies, uppercuts and headbutts.


**Stephenie**** Meyer owns all things Twilight.**

**A/N: This is fanfiction of fanfiction. Keyword: fiction. Written by a reader who has asked to remain anonymous. This o/s was originally intended for only mary and myself, then we read it and we both loved it so much we wanted to share it.**

**Word. **

**Yellow Violets Red - Petey**

"This is such bullshit."

"Quit fuckin' whining, Ben. You're the reason we lost."

"The fuck I was! You missed the easiest fucking clues! And that little princess-baby was cheating, I swear."

"Don't be a such little bitch, Ben," I laugh. "Bliss wouldn't cheat."

"Suck my fat dick, Petey, you weren't even there."

"You first, shithead," I challenged him. Yeah, I stayed out of the game, in the kitchen. But just 'cause I wasn't watching, that doesn't change the fact that I know Bliss doesn't cheat.

She's a good girl.

Just like Alice is a good girl.

And that's why we're here, pulling into the gas station convenience store parking lot at 2:45 am, GroupLove blasting from the Continental's speakers, to fulfill our end of the bet.

Ally and Blissy-baby talked us into a boys-versus-girls game of Pictionary. If we won, they would have to be our personal slaves for the rest of the night. If _they_ won, we had to let them paint our nails. We talked them down to just driving out and bringing them back Twinkies and cherry-coke slushies.

'Cause fuck that shit.

But the truth was, we would have brought them their junk food even if they lost.

They're good girls, and it makes us happy to see them happy. We're not that far gone.

Besides, Dusty and Ben were stoned-stupid and drunk off Patron. They had no chance against two completely sober and probably smarter than us anyway girls.

I finished a blunt in the kitchen by myself on the phone with Kim while they played. She started talking about how unfairly her parents treat her, and by the time I realized what was happening,the blunt was a stub and the game was over.

Dusty pulls the Continental into a spot in front of the store, and I start to open the door.

"Hold up," Edward says, pulling a square of tinfoil from his pocket.

He taps a fingernail into the powder inside and inhales sharply before offering it to Ben, who does a bump off his pinkie and asks me with his eyes, but I shake my head. I'm pretty fucked up already, thank you very much.

He folds it back up quickly, handing it back to Edward, who rubs his nose once and opens the door, letting a cold breeze into the car. We step out, hands in our hoodie pockets and stretching the fabric down with our fists, pulling the hoods tighter around our faces.

Edward grins at us, eyes wide and laughing silently, and lights a cigarette in the doorway, his face marked with sinister shadows from the mini-mart's floodlights.

Maybe it's the bud, but for the first time it hits me,what we must look like.

Young trouble. A bad fucking dream walking.

I can't bring myself to give a fuck.

We push the door open with a jingle and Edward exhales a lungful of smoke inside. The cashier, a middle-aged blonde, opens her mouth like she wants to tell him off, but furrows her brow and shuts her lips in a crinkled frown instead.

For a second, she reminds me of my mom.

And then there's laughter as Ben and Edward find the snack aisle, and instead of grabbing a couple of Twinkies, they're taking one of everything: pink-dusted Sno-Puffs, Razzles, Push-Pops, Reese's Pieces, swirly cream-filled Ho-Hos, Runts, Giant Chewy SweeTarts, golden Butterscotch Krimpets, three kinds of Big League Chew. Dusty grabs the sugary junk food and tosses it at Ben, who's catching it in his half-zipped hoodie, holding it tight to keep everything from falling out.

He throws a packaged apple pie at me and I laugh, catching it easily. I slip it back on the shelf because there's no way two little girls are going to eat all that shit.

Edward hits Ben in the chest with a roll of Bubble Tape, and he calls him a shitty pitcher and starts throwing the snacks back at him, laughing.

I go and pour the slushies. They don't have cherry-coke, but they have cherry, and they have coke. I alternate flavors, filling the largest-sized cups to the top with brown and red stripes.

I'm a fucking zen master of slushy art.

By the time I'm done, Dusty and Ben are at the cashier, dumping their sugar bombs out on the dirty counter top. The blonde is ringing them up so slowly, silently seething at us. Edward glares at her, silence heavy and threatening, but she doesn't meet his eyes.

The fluorescent lights' hum and the beeping of the scanner are the only sounds until some douche bag in the section with all the soap and shit starts talking obnoxiously loud on his phone.

"Baby? Yeah, I see Regular and Light. Purple? No, there's no purple boxes. Just blue and pink. Wait, I was looking at the Tampax. Playtex? Variety pack? That has purple and yellow. You want me to get that one? Okay. I will. Love you too, Mrs. Gray. Laters, baby."

Edward stops staring the cashier down to look in the direction of the pussy motherfucker frolicking in the tampons, craning his neck to see. Some guy in a business suit, over-styled hair that stands stiff even when his head moves, and a ridiculously shiny silver tie. Buying tampons. At three in the morning.

"Wonder if his girlfriend cut his balls off or if they just fell off in her hand," Ben snickers.

Dusty smiles a quarter smile, still staring towards the overdressed stranger, rounding the aisle towards us at the counter.

"Sixteen thirty-two."

A long pause sits in the air before Ben chuckles, "I ain't payin', man. You're the one lost the game."

Dropping a twenty on the counter, finally looking away, Edward snorts and pushes the door open.

Ben follows him, and I grab the bag and slushies, a beat behind them.

"What? What's up, man?" Ben asks.

Dusty shakes his head. "Nothing. Just that guy looked familiar is all." He ducks into the drivers seat of the Lincoln, turning the key and watching the dashboard light up. "Shit. I need gas."

I'm barely in the car when he pulls out of the spot, driving the few yards to the gas pumps too fast.

Motherfucker better not make me spill these slushies. One, they're perfect. And two, these seats are fucking cherry.

In a second, he throws the car into park and swipes a card at the pump. Ben trots up to the car laughing. Dusty didn't even realize he wasn't in his seat. If he hadn't needed gas, we would have been home before the cocky motherfucker realized he left our friend behind.

Edward takes a long last drag from his cigarette and tosses the butt a few feet away. It lands in a shallow puddle, and for a minute I wonder if it's rainwater or gasoline, but before I can finish the thought, the spark is extinguished by the tire of a shiny Audi R8.

The suit from the tampon aisle is driving, and pulls up beside us. Too far away from the pumps, he opens the driver's side door too quickly and with a thump of metal, leaves a faint ding in the passenger door of Dusty's Continental.

My first urge is to laugh, cause I know I'm about to see someone's head explode. But I don't want it to be _my_ head, so I press my lips hard, and hold my chuckle inside my chest. I look out the window and can tell immediately from Edward's stiff posture that, yeah, he felt that.

The douche bag shuts his door, either unaware or unwilling to admit that he bumped us.

Edward drops the nozzle and it clunks to a stop, landing sideways on the ground. The fingers of his left hand splay and flex, and tighten into a fist. The numbers on the pump freeze and so do I, paused like a song. My fingers are already curled around the handle.

The silver tie hanging down is almost reflective under the gas station floodlights, and the guy is looking in his wallet for a card when Edward walks around the car, stepping directly in front of him. He looks up, and Edward just grins for a moment while the stranger squints in confusion.

"You fucking hit my car," he says.

The guy looks at Dusty like he's ash, like he's nothing.

He audibly scoffs. "Fuck off, you little punk. I didn't touch your piece of sh—"

And in the next breath, I hear the thick slap of a fist on skin, and the tampon consumer goes down, hitting the concrete ass-first.

He slides back a pace, and looks at the hand that came up to protect his face a second too late, seeing a smear of crimson there. He scrambles to his feet, and his voice has a stunned, shaky quality underneath the pompous accent of affluence. "What is the _meaning_ of this? Do you know who I _am_?"

I see Dusty blink, his eyes pinched like he didn't hear the guy right. And then he just laughs once, briefly looking down at the passenger door before bringing his right fist straight up into the suit's jaw.

Ben lets out a whoop of excitement and slides across the trunk towards the fight, but he hangs back, waiting, while the guy hits the ground.

I want to get out too, but I get the feeling Dusty doesn't want or need any help.

Actually, I get the feeling Dusty is completely in his own world right now.

He advances on the guy, who's lying flat out, bloodied in the narrow space between the two cars, eyes whipping around in fear. With one hand, Dusty grabs a fistful of his shirt and tie and pulls him up, and he stumbles backwards against the Lincoln.

I gotta get out and see whats happening now, but I can't find the cup holders. Does this car even have cup holders? What kind of car doesn't have rear cup holders?

His body slams against the car, and I set the slushies down on the floor as I climb out of the backseat. The guy turns to me, and the terror in his eyes is a fucking kerosene fire. His arms are out at his sides in a gesture of early surrender.

"W-w-what the fuck do you want?" he stutters.

"I want to watch you to bleed all over my fucking car," Dusty answers, landing another punch high on the guy's cheekbone. Blood and spit splatter on the passenger side window. "'Cause we pay for what we do in life."

Another, near the same spot. I can already see the bruise developing under the skin, a hot-looking red-fuschia now, like Kimbaby's nails, but I know it will settle to fifty shades of purple in an hour or so.

"And I don't want your fucking money," Edward tells him.

Another punch, and the guy's face is more blood than face. I nudge Ben, wondering if we should step in before it gets any worse. Edward's dad is good at making trouble go away, but judging by his suit and his car, this guy might be better at making trouble stick around. Ben's transfixed, taking no notice of me, drinking in the scene like the first beer of the night.

"I wanna feel your fucking repentance," Edward continues.

Tampon man is sort of stunned now, and Dusty takes a step back. The guy springs forward, lunging with both hands for Edward's neck, backing him up into the Audi.

There's a half-breathing sound, a choking noise, and I step forward, ready to pull the asshole off him, but Ben holds me back with one arm.

It's then I realize the sound is Edward laughing.

"You got a grip like a fucking girl, man!" He reaches up and easily pulls the man's hands away from his neck, and in the same beat, head-butts him, and he stumbles back. A new gash opens, centered just above his eyebrows. His eyes lock onto the floodlights overhead, and I know he's done for. He slumps down the side of the Lincoln, slipping with a squeak against the door until he tumbles sideways to the ground.

I wonder how he's going to explain that at his nine-thirty sales meeting.

"Maybe the tampons were for him," Ben jokes. "He's a bloody fucking pussy now."

Dusty snorts and kicks him in the side once, before leaning down close to the guy's ear and whispering something I can't make out, and spitting on the side of his face.

"Let's go," he mumbles, walking by.

It's not even two seconds and we're both in the car, slammed safe in the backseat, and Dusty's hit the gas before we even get our seat belts on.

It's silent, so silent on the streets, the quietest they've ever been. We're quiet inside and out. If I were someone else, I'd be worried. Worried that we could all get in trouble. Worried that the guy might be really hurt. Worried that this might be the last straw for Edward's dad, and that the consequences might be dire this time.

I might be worried that my friend has such violence just under his skin, like a vein that's way too easy to access, especially lately.

But I'm me, so I don't give a fuck.

The wet pavement hisses under our tires and I lean forward, into Edward's shoulder. I see his hand curled loosely around the steering wheel, knuckles kissed with bright red. The edges were already turning darker, crackling slightly with the movement of his skin.

"My cousin can get that ding out for nothing. We can bring it in tomorrow morning."

He nods. I don't mention that the service station my cousin owns has a coin-op car wash too Cause he should get that blood off the window.

It might have hepatitis or some shit.

There's a wet slurping sound beside me, and before I can stop myself, I scream. "Ben you greasy little piece of monkey shit those were for Ally and Bliss!"

His eyes go huge and he looks back and forth from my face to his near-empty drink about four times before he realizes what's going on.

"Shit, Petey, I only drank one. You're not the fucking slurpee police. It's just ice and food coloring."

He's wrong. It was the best goddamn slushie ever. And now it's gone.

But at least I saw it. I knew, and Ally and Bliss are good at sharing. I'm sure they'll have no problem polishing Benny's nails with glitter and shit if one slushie masterpiece isn't enough.

The streets are quiet, but Grouplove is still on in the background. _Colours_ is about over, but that's the best part. I tap Dusty's shoulder. "Turn it up."

_So, when you see us out there on the open road, you don't need to explain if everything's changed. Just know that you don't know._

_We call it life. Oh yeah, that's what we call it when we can't call it at all. _

_We do it for love, sweet love._


End file.
